


some courtesy, some sympathy, some taste

by thespideyboy



Series: Good Omens!!! [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale just wants to do his thing, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Bookshop Shenanigans, Crowley wants attention, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Good Omens, Tooth Rotting Fluff, it's just these two being sweet and lovely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-22 04:41:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19660039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thespideyboy/pseuds/thespideyboy
Summary: Now, for any circumspect soul, a glass of wine paired with a priceless, leather-bound novel would be a recipe for disaster, a risk that isn’t worth it, though the demon doesn’t think much of the potential consequences, the angel, who watches on in salient horror, is calculating the dozens upon hundreds of ways that this scenario could and, with his luck, probably will go wrong.“Crowley,” Aziraphale pleads. “Won’t you consider- I don’t know, perhaps handling that book in a more sensible manner?”Crowley lifts his glass, the wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim. Light refracts through the crystal, casts a mulberry hue over his grinning face. “Sensible, hm?” He questions, looking between his glass and the novel. “Can’t say I know a whole lot about bein’ sensible.”//or, the one where crowley just wants some attention





	some courtesy, some sympathy, some taste

With the last day of the world little more than a smudge on the windshield of reality, the personal endeavours of those not involved (or aware, for that matter,) continue on as though the universe hadn’t just experienced an omnipresent retcon. The sun rises again, the moon urges the tide, and the city fills with smog- differences are present, hidden in the periphery, but for all intents and purposes, the world remains as it had been.

Meaning, the world continues on, turning on its axis as a snarling mass of fruitless political tensions, willful ignorance, grievous environmental neglect, and the  _ greasiest food imaginable ™ _ . Despicable as it is, it’s consistent with what the world truly  _ had  _ been, even before the icy whispers of Armageddon had penetrated the atmosphere, and at the end of the day, this questionable pit of pollution and stench is what keeps the humans happy and the earth poised in dubious equilibrium. 

It’s puzzling, as many of these matters tend to be, but given the nature of humankind, and their affinity for destruction of the heedless kind, it’s sensical and, in a way,  _ natural.  _

And yet, though most differences were corrected, carefully realigned and slotted back together like cosmic Lego bricks, the world most definitely  _ did not  _ return to it’s entire former glory- No, definitely not, which is why there’s a demon strolling through an angel’s domain, the black heels of his boots clacking like hellish castanets against polished hardwood. 

The two of them are no longer followed by celestial eyes- their activities are freely their own, choices unlaboured by their respective kinds. With their interactions no longer the celestial equivalent of the  _ Judas Kiss,  _ occurring  _ together  _ is now marginally  _ less sacrilege _ . (Key word: Marginally.)

Hence the glass of wine balanced precariously in the demon’s left hand, and the first-edition copy of  _ Gulliver’s Travels  _ in the other. He’s like a speck of dust, meandering aimlessly about the angel’s premises.

Now, for any circumspect soul, a glass of wine paired with a priceless, leather-bound novel would be a recipe for disaster, a risk that  _ isn’t worth it,  _ though the demon doesn’t think much of the potential consequences, the angel, who watches on in salient horror, is calculating the dozens upon  _ hundreds  _ of ways that this scenario could and, with his luck, probably  _ will _ go wrong. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale pleads. “Won’t you consider- I don’t know, perhaps handling that book in a more  _ sensible  _ manner?”

Crowley lifts his glass, the wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim. Light refracts through the crystal, casts a mulberry hue over his grinning face. “Sensible, hm?” He questions, looking between his glass and the novel. “Can’t say I know a whole lot about bein’ sensible.”

Aziraphale huffs. “If you  _ must  _ know,” He adjusts his bowtie absently, “That there copy was a gift from the Reverend Johnathan Swift himself, complete with a very  _ thoughtful  _ inscription, and-”

“Aziraphale, Aziraphale,  _ Aziraphale _ ,” Crowley chides, raising his glass to his lips. His sip is gluttonous, indulgent in a way that makes Aziraphale’s throat close. “When have I  _ ever  _ besmirched something of yours? ‘M just enjoying this  _ wonderful  _ piece of literary gold, yeah?”

“Six thousand years and you’ve never voluntarily lifted a single book, and now-”

The demon chuckles. The angel, very pointedly, does not.

_ What else am I to do?  _ Crowley had said.

_ S’not like the big guys downstairs want anything to do with me anymore, and it’s not like they’re doin’ anymore reconnaissance on yourself.  _ Crowley had said.

_ I can run the bookshop with you. Be loads of fun, would’nit? _ Crowley had said. 

_ Spend some real time together, you and I, I and you. Don’t that sound nice? _

Aziraphale gets a headache just thinking about it.

“Y’know. S’all sounds like you don’t trust me, Angel.”

Mouth open and ready to agree that,  _ no, of course he doesn’t,  _ Aziraphale is promptly distracted by the unceremonious creak of the front door swinging open. A stout man and a young boy enter; the former is glued to something handheld, the latter is not. Crowley receives a look of concern from Aziraphale, but for the sake of his beloved bookshop, the matter is temporarily dropped. 

“Greetings, Sir,” Aziraphale dips his head, and then turns to the child. “And young Sir. What brings you two gentlemen in today?” 

The man continues to tap away at the screen of his phone. He doesn’t muster enough effort to spare even a polite glance. “Mhm. Get ‘im whatever he wants.”

The child, who’s dressed in loose khakis and a threadbare polo, gives the angel a wide-eyed stare. “My mum said you might have the third Harry Potter?”

Without even having to check the shelves, Aziraphale knows that this boy’s mum was incorrect in her assumption of his stock- however, Aziraphale also knows that he’s no longer monitored by Those  _ upstairs,  _ and is more or less entirely free to indulge in as many small miracles that his metaphysical heart can bear. It’s not an existence without chains, not  _ really _ , because he’s still bound by the mortal plane and blacklisted by Heaven, but, if the feeling Aziraphale experiences at the way the boy beams when he nods his head in confirmation,  _ this right here  _ is all he needs.

There’s a demon in his shop and a poignant lack of intangible golden light cloaking his shoulders. Nevertheless, the glow in his eyes is genuine, perhaps as it’s never truly been before.

He guides the young customer over to what he’s recently taken to calling the  _ Kid’s Corner -  _ An aptly-named niche that’s predominantly stocked with novels tailored to children’s affairs, and guides about safe exploration, and the occasional mathematics workbook. Naturally, Crowley had mocked the title, an exaggerated grimace stretching across his mouth, slow like an alleycat, as he went on about  _ remissive unoriginality,  _ but Aziraphale paid his negativity no mind. Albeit  _ humbly,  _ the corner is something he’d been proud of from the start. So called  _ bland naming schematic _ or not. 

Regardless.

Aziraphale motions to the shelf. The child grabs his book with an eager holler, pulls it tight to his chest, and then begins to pelt Aziraphale with as many wizard-based questions as his growing brain can generate. 

Crowley adjusts his glasses, hiding the softness behind them- it’s midday, a Monday if the sludge of people slopping outside the storefront is anything to go by, meaning that this is positively  _ not the time _ to swoon over the gentle angel across the way. No. 

Allowed to carry out  _ business as usual _ (which, as Crowley’s come to learn, is both unfathomably slow and mind-numblingly boring, even to the standards of someone who’d existed through the damned  _ fourteenth century) _ , Aziraphale isn’t going to lock up shop for another six hours. The thought leaves Crowley all but  _ itching  _ to perform some miracles of his own- or, to more realistically put it, all but  _ itching  _ for attention, specifically from his favourite heaven-sent. 

And, as Crowley’s long since been aware, the most  _ efficient  _ way of garnering the attention and, hopefully, the affection of his desired is, as always, raising a teeny-tiny, itty-bitty, spider-sized nugget of absolute _ hell.  _

Aziraphale’s eyes, humble and blue across the shop’s berth, meet with Crowley’s. He’s the North Star, bathed in the lush sunlight sweeping in from the curtainless windows as he explains the logistics behind theoretical wand-selection, and whether or not birch would perform in a superior manner to oak under harsh wind conditions, but the look of suspicion he shoots is sharp like a wine glass, shattered carelessly overtop an invaluable classic.

Crowley simpers in response, as if to say,  _ I’ll be good. Promise.  _

The child reassume’s Aziraphale’s attention, creating a Crowley-sized window of opportunity. 

Fingers stretched, Crowley places  _ Gulliver’s Travels  _ down on Aziraphale’s desk, and then carefully vanishes his glass of wine. Nothing is spilled, of course, nor would anything ever have been spilled (because, ultimately, Crowley’s goal is never to  _ actually  _ hurt the angel in any way, but to merely annoy him into a state of passive endearment), and then, with the grace of a cobra and the mischievous swagger of a badger, he slinks over to the rotund man still standing at the door. 

“Now,” Sidling up close, he can identify every spot and pore present on the man’s reddish skin. He tosses the metaphorical bait, soliciting, “There oughta be  _ somethin’  _ here that, er- pertains to your tastes, yeah?” 

The man peers up at Crowley, the bulge of his eyeballs reminiscent of that of a Tarsier monkey. “Sorry- here for the boy. I won’t be in need of your, erm,  _ service. _ ” He says gruffly.

“ _ Pish-posh _ ,” Crowely’s smile widens, pulling too far across his face, the corners of his mouth seeming to distend into his hairline, warping and twisting in a way that betrays natural law. “I’ve  _ plenty  _ for you, good Sir.” Another teasing knot forms in his predatory smirk, _ “C’mere _ .” 

It’s a simple command, consisting of no more than a single word, two measly syllables, and the man is nothing but acquiescent in his compliance. He’s not hypnotized, per se, but allured- Crowley leads him over towards the bookshelf closest to the door, blinking until he can feel the pages within the books alter. Reality bends around them, subtle and small and  _ nearly  _ insignificant. 

_ Nearly _ , which is to say that something has changed, buckled at the hands of Crowley’s morally-questionable willpower. 

He checks over his shoulder- Aziraphale is busy still. 

Time is to be spent, and shenanigans are to be had. 

The man -  _ Tarsier, _ Crowley can’t help but think of him as - stares on in disconcerted interest as Crowley glides a single, slender finger over a line of leather-bound spines. The edge of his nail dips between each book, deciding, deciding, deciding, until-

“Ah! This one,” A hefty, red monster of a volume is yanked out from its place on the shelf like a foal from the womb, a golden foetus in the cradle of Crowley’s steady hands. “Prize of a thing, lemme tell you.” He rubs a shape into the leather binding and it tingles against his skin, reminding him of champagne bubbles, or simmering milk. “It’ll show you whatever you want’a see.”

Hips swaying, Crowley saunters impossibly closer until he’s all but  _ wrapped  _ around Tarsier’s trunk. His tongue flicks out against an oily ear, drags like a rusted nail against rain-slick pavement. 

Knowing none the better, Tarsier takes the book warily, balancing it in his grasp like he’s unsure whether or not it’s about to blow. It’s heavy, heavier than perhaps a book this size has any right to be, but he entertains it anyways, somehow entranced by the item in his hands. Stumpy fingers quiver, hover carefully over the cover before towing it back. 

Tarsier gasps. His pupils thicken considerably. 

At one point, the book in question may have been an encyclopedia, or an atlas, or maybe even an ergonomic native-bat compendium for amateur chiropterologists. Maybe it had been a guidebook, of sorts, for navigating the catacombs beneath Paris, or the sewers beneath London. Either way, whatever it had or hadn’t been, it most definitely isn’t any longer. 

Crowley peers over Tarsier’s portly shoulder. Skin, bodies and more skin, moving and moaning and  _ fucking _ ,  _ miraculously  _ projected across the blank pages in vivid hyperrealism. It’s a politician’s wet dream, the lot of it, but even though it’s typical human fodder, and sadistically satisfying to a certain extent, the whole ‘ _ screwing a centipede’s worth of people in some dingy casino’  _ thing really isn’t Crowley’s scene when it comes to these sorts of things. 

(Though not something he takes lightly to admitting, Crowley’s scene falls more along the lines of, ‘ _ red wine and silk sheets and stubborn angels’.  _ Or rather,  _ ‘red wine and silk sheets and a very specific stubborn angel, one with ivory hair and brilliant eyes and an infuriatingly perfect posture’.  _ It’s not a particularly important detail, except that it  _ very much is.) _

“ _ Porn,”  _ He commends. It’s no surprise, that this bulbous hog of a man desires sex, women and sweat and  _ sex _ , even in public, and even with his son, and even in the most  _ unerotic  _ shop this side of the equator. “Someone’s not too  _ pleased  _ with what they’re gettin’ at home, hm?”

Bottom lip dribbling open, as though he intends to say something but can’t spare the energy needed to follow through with it, Tarsier grips the pages harder and harder, until his dirty nails dig crescents into the cover, scratch rigidly against the yellowed pages.

This kind of demonic intervention is truly Crowley’s favourite- instead of planting the seeds, he waters them, entices them into something gross and large, vile and darkly familiar. He sets to explore shame-founded desires, the ones typically shrouded by indoctrinated niceties, tease the grimy human surface without exploiting more than a pinch of embarrassment, a teaspoon worth of guilt and, ideally, a quarter cup of _misery._

When he inhales, Crowley can smell the cold stench of  _ guilty misery  _ seeping from irritated pores. It’s tangy but subtle, smooth like expensive perfume. 

He lolls his head, steals a quick glimpse of Aziraphale. 

The angel is still occupied with absurd questions about fictional magic (as opposed to the non-fictional kind, which is, unfortunately, considerably  _ less  _ interesting and considerably  _ more  _ convoluted than the fabricated stuff). He’s more invested than Crowley had initially thought, but the remedy is easy, albeit a little on the  _ dramatic  _ side. 

A demon, however, is nothing if not a  _ drama queen.  _

Crowley snaps his fingers, a chalky puff of smoke rising from his thumb and middle finger. Though the book stays the same size, the pictures seem to get larger, fattening until Tarsier is submerged in the filthy product of his own polluted desires. 

As though a spout with a busted nozzle, Tarsier’s _grime_ floods the storefront, crashes over the hardwood in uneven waves, rises to the ceiling like a Nieuport 16 spiralling in reverse. It tickles the underside of Crowley’s chin, as pleasant as a lolly down by the square. He’s right where Crowley wants him - miserably entranced by the fantasied _sex_ conjured before him, trousers in a twist (both figuratively _and_ literally, much to Crowley’s amusement), an incorporeal tumor of shame engorging where his neck meets his head. It expands rapidly, larger and larger, swelling like a helium balloon at the Party Delights three blocks down, and Crowley thinks that his customer (for lack of better words) may very well go _pop_ , right here, right in front of his son and in front of Aziraphale and-

To simply put it, this man is a breath and a gasp away from soiling his mud-coloured slacks, and, though Crowley would  _ adore  _ watching him squirm for  _ at least a moment _ longer, Aziraphale rings his young customer through in record time, and ambushes Crowley’s post with a strained smile and a wrinkle in his forehead. 

Before anything has the chance to happen, Aziraphale sends a haughty gesture at the enchanted book. Words advance across the pages like inky roots, replacing the R-Rated metaphysical projections with its native content.

Aziraphale looks as though he’s ready to smite Crowley where he stands. 

Tarsier gaze jumps to Crowley, to his son, to Aziraphale, down at the book, to Aziraphale again, and then back to Crowley. He clears his throat with a grunt, pushing the book into Crowley’s hands. His eyes are wide and haunted, and his mouth seems to have lost the ability to fully shut. “Did you-” A voice crack, another gruff clear of his throat, and Tarsier continues, “Finished?” He chooses. 

His son nods, holding up his find- a copy that, without a doubt, is  _ much  _ too extravagant for a twelve-year-old to have perched in his grubby, twelve-year-old hands. First edition, because Aziraphale is a firm believer in quality product, with a very cleverly implemented signature and inscription scrawled across the front cover. 

“Thank you for stopping by.” Aziraphale seethes, in the gentle, petrifying way only an angel is capable of executing _.  _ His eyes dart nervously between his customer, his customer’s father, and Crowley, and though a tense moment exists, just for a  _ moment, of course,  _ the child and his father leave the shop with a nod and a wave, as well as an excited, “Thank you, sir!”

Crowley looks at the book in his hands instead of watching them leave. He flips it over, and it reads, ‘ _ Encyclopedia of Animals and Non-imals that May Exist or May Not’. _

“Huh.” Crowley returns the book back to it’s shelf. “Think my version was an improvement. What’d’you think?”

Slowly, as though he’s stood on the platform of an  _ exceptionally lazy _ lazy susan, Aziraphale turns to Crowley, his brows pulled and his mouth agape. “I do believe I asked you to behave this morning. Do my memories deceive me?”

Crowley adjusts his glasses, a low whine seeping into his tone, “Oh C’mon. Have a little  _ sympathy,  _ won’t you?” 

Aziraphale is visibly unmoved. This doesn’t come as a surprise to Crowley, who slumps his shoulders and, for good measure, extends his bottom lip like a petulant child. 

_ “ _ He was such an  _ easy _ target, Angel. Could see the nasty  _ muck  _ leakin’ off’a him from across the shop, figured that you’d not want someone like that comin’ back in here. ‘Specially not now that you’ve got me waltzing around.”

“It doesn’t-” Aziraphale snaps, before straightening his shoulders, recalibrating. This time, his voice is softer, “It doesn’t mean you should take the liberty to add further  _ muck. _ ” He sniffs. “And- and  _ mucky  _ or not, the child was a dear, and I want  _ no  _ reason for that young man not to return. With or without unpleasant company.”

Crowley groans, tossing his head back. It takes a considerable amount of willpower to keep his eyes up, because the ceiling is bland, and he’d much rather look at Aziraphale. “Tell me- what ever happened to not wanting to sell your books, hm?” 

There’s a pause, occupied only by the distant bustle of the pedestrians outside. 

“I do believe I mentioned actually wanting to  _ run  _ the shop, you know, now that we’re to do whatever we please.” He surveys the shop, the books that line the walls, “I can collect these books forever, horde them for myself like a- like a dragon in a cave, but-”

“But you’re not a dragon, you’re a- a-” The word is on the tip of his forked tongue, but it escapes his grasp when he reaches for it, “Oh, one of those hulking reptilian beasts. Y’know- the- the dead ones, whatever they’re called.”

“Dinosaurs?”

“Yes!” Crowley snaps his fingers cathartically, “That’s it, a  _ dinosaur,  _ Aziraphale. You’re a dinosaur. Not a dragon.”

Aziraphale squints. “I can’t say I quite understand what you’re implying.”

“I’m implying that you’re  _ old _ , Angel. ‘S what the humans say, innit?”

“Crowley, you know as well as I that God  _ faked  _ the dinosaurs. I mean, technically,  _ yes,  _ I  _ am  _ older than the fossils themselves. But- but they’re falsehoods. Red herrings. So while I understand the point you were attempting at making regarding my  _ age,  _ of all things, you may want to-”

“Alright,  _ alright _ ,” Crowley groans. “No need to speak my damned ear off.” He yanks his glasses off, scrubs at his eyes with a scowl that would send any  _ reasonable  _ person running for the hills. 

Luckily for him, Aziraphale isn’t a person, and  _ definitely  _ isn’t reasonable. Especially not when it comes to red-headed demons in luxury booties. “Perhaps you should consider being a little more  _ clever  _ with your razz, Crowley.”

“Razz? What on  _ earth  _ does that even mean?”

Aziraphale scoffs. His chest is puffed and his back is straight- absently, Crowley can’t help but think he looks like a penguin, standing prim and proper and  _ irritatingly proud  _ amongst his mountainous bookshelves. “To  _ razz,  _ my boy, is to  _ mock. _ ”

“And, enlighten me,” Crowley raises a single eyebrow, fixing his glasses back atop the slope of his nose, “Which century is that from?”

“For your information-” Aziraphale starts, then presses his mouth into a hard line. Confrontation isn’t what he’s looking for- maturity on Crowley’s part, perhaps, behaviour that’s indicative of a six-thousand year-old demonic entity and not a thirteen year-old child, but certainly not conflict. “It doesn’t matter,” He huffs out, “All I would like is some respect while I carry on with my business.” 

The way Aziraphale says it, with his lips wilting in the  _ saddest, most soul-crushing  _ pout fathomable and his shoulders hunching in the terrible, infinitesimal manner they only do when he’s disappointed, Crowley can’t help but lose the edge to his voice, the teasing bite in his tone. 

With a sigh as heavy as the sudden load of guilt on his shoulders, Crowley drifts towards the other. His eyes, bubbling magma under the shop’s mellow light, peer over the rim of his glasses and home in on Aziraphale.“I’m sorry.” He languishes. The apology is easy, though bitter on his tongue. “Eugh. Can’t stand makin’ you all-” He makes a gesture towards Aziraphale, “All upset and sad and- and all that. Not supposed to be sad, you.”

Aziraphale smiles like he’s won the lottery- of course, Crowley figures, he knew what he’d been doing, conjuring an expression like that. They’ve six thousand years under their belt, and there’s little Aziraphale is more skilled at than getting what he wants from the demon, playing him like a lyre amongst the clouds and cold, granite floors in heaven. 

“Spoiled Angel,” He grumbles, but the crinkled corners of his eyes betray him. He’s caught tracing the outline of the other’s figure; the kind dip of his nose; the peachy flush in his skin; the grasp of his hands, gentle but solid, careful but  _ strong.  _

Crowley can’t help his admiration, can’t help that it goes against everything he should be capable of. Attention is what he wanted, and now that his is focused on Aziraphale, the restless energy fluttering behind his ribs turns pliant, eases like a snake in a bush. 

“Naughty Serpent,” Aziraphale shoots back, his lips smoothing into a private smile- one that, had anyone else been in the shop, would have called for the immediate  _ elimination  _ of company. “A handful and a half, you are.”

“‘S lucky you’ve got two hands then, yeah?” Crowley sweeps forward, set on grabbing Aziraphale, dragging him upstairs, having his way, but the door opens with an aggravated groan, and then Aziraphale is,  _ miraculously,  _ out of Crowley’s reach once more. 

“Alright,” He says to himself, “Guess I’ll just, I don’t know,” Another wine glass appears in his hand- dry merlot, red as blood and nearly filled to the rim. “Drink myself to death, all by my lonesome. Rot like the  _ demon  _ I am at the back of a- of a  _ bookshop.  _ Augh.”

If Aziraphale shoots him a flaming arrow of a glare, Crowley is too busy pouting into his glass to acknowledge it. He wanders over to the back of the shop, claims the plush reading couch as his own. His head is tossed back against one arm, his legs hanging over the other- he’s a tableau of indulgence, of careless comfort and, for the most part, hefty boredom. 

More customers enter, and more leave. Most meander about, poke and prod at Aziraphale’s collection of books, greasy hands muddling preserved covers, hasty fingers flipping through delicate pages. Crowley, with his pleasantly bottomless glass of wine balanced between the branches of his middle and ring fingers, forces himself to sit back and watch.

He interacts with his surroundings occasionally, willing a book to dive from its shelf, or driving a customer to bump into another, or a coffee to spill down the front of someone’s shirt (and, very fortunately, not onto any of books nearby). Once every twenty minutes or so, he’ll breathe the record player to life, play some operatic or symphonic rendition of  _ Sympathy for the Devil _ when Aziraphale is especially busy, but he’s ultimately static where he is, a scowling gargoyle cemented to an ancient tartan loveseat. 

_ Behaving _ , he decides (definitely not for the first time),  _ is rubbish.  _ A waste of time, through and through and through. 

“The things I’d do for you, Angel.” He mutters to himself, supervising Aziraphale putter through the shop, fleeting from demanding customer to demanding customer, an increasingly frustrated expression developing upon the structure of his face. “All of the things I’d do,” He repeats.

An hour passes, and then another two, before Aziraphale is joining Crowley at the back of the shop. His hair looks more like a shedding dandelion than usual, and his bowtie sits crookedly at his throat. He doesn’t look tired, per se, but dealing with customer service for more than a couple of minutes is bound to leave anyone, supernatural entity or otherwise, scrambling for a break. 

Crowley holds his glass out. “Looks like you need this more than I do.”

Aziraphale accepts it gratefully, closing his eyes as he brings the rim to his lips and takes a drink. The wine is bottomless, and won’t empty regardless of how much love or attention it’s given, but the angel gives it a run for its money. “I believe,” He says, eyeing the glass, swishing the merlot in a gentle circle. “I believe that, perhaps, customer service isn’t for me.”

“You don’t say.” Crowley slides his legs off of the arm of the couch, his heels clicking when they meet the floor, and straightens. He gestures to the newly opened spot. Aziraphale all but collapses next to him, irrevocable warmth radiating from his skin- he’s a divine space heater, always plugged in and exuding tender energy. 

Crowley’s cold-blooded heart heats with the sensation. 

Taking a swig of wine, Aziraphale nods grimly. “Everyone is so-” Another swig, followed by a hard swallow, “So  _ entitled,  _ like I’m- like I’m there to wait on their every need and whim.  _ ‘Hello, Mister Fell, I understand you’re busy with- with three other customers, right now, but my needs surpass the needs of those around me, and I demand that you give me all your attention, here and now and-’ _ ” 

A bothered rift works its way between light eyebrows. Crowley feels resentment simmering in the pit of his stomach. 

“Humans are insolent, Angel.” He sighs, reaching a hand out towards Aziraphale. His fingers find solace at the base of the other’s thigh, rubbing abstract shapes into the fabric of his slacks. “How about you close up shop early, yeah? ‘S your first day, anyways, no need to overdo it. Not like they deserve it.”

Aziraphale sends him an uncertain glance. A minute passes, breath held, limbs locked, and then he gives a tired nod, slouching back against the couch. Which, to Aziraphale’s standards, is simply sitting straighter than Crowley but not quite as straight as he usually does. 

With a snap that echoes between the bookshelves lining the shop’s walls, the front door locks resolutely and the lights flicker off. Dull sunlight spills in, bathing the interior in a gentle hue, one that’s as warm and golden as toasted brioche on a Saturday morning. 

“All done,” Crowley soothes. His voice drips like syrup, slow and viscous as it washes over Aziraphale’s face, settles the worried lines along his skin. 

Aziraphale takes another sip of wine. It’s more of a chug, if Crowley’s opinion is worth consulting, but it’s all semantics, at the end of the day. Regardless, the glass doesn’t empty.

The door shakes when a shadow appears in the window- someone outside is trying to enter, but after the first couple of attempts, they give up and walk away. Aziraphale stiffens, as though he’s tempted to spontaneously reopen, jump back into the alligator's swamp that just so happens to be customer service, but he appears to think better of it, carefully leaning back against the couch. The corner of his mouth is turned down. 

“Y’know,” Crowley says, “You could always just, I don’t know,  _ not _ sell your books?” 

“But-”

“But what? ‘S not like you ever wanted to sell them before, right? And the two of us? We can do whatever the hell we want now. Free as- as pigeons. In trees. Happy lot, pigeons in trees. And we can travel the world, or, I don’t know, go  _ swimming, _ if we so please. They’re not keepin’ track anymore, not after,  _ well. _ ” He pauses, and then reiterates, “They’re not keepin’ track of us.”

Aziraphale exhales, the humble barrel of his chest deflating.“It’s not that simple, Crowley.” His bow tie is crooked, still- Crowley draws his hand up from his thigh, guides it up Aziraphale’s stomach, up to his throat, and carefully realigns it. 

Crowley cocks an eyebrow, “Why not?” 

“Because-” Aziraphale begins, his eyes pleading, “I thought I could be- I don’t know- I thought this could make me a little more, how do I put it? A little more  _ human. _ ” A beat of silence passes. “Or, at least, a little less  _ angel.  _ After the whole kerfuffle with the Metatron and Gabriel?” 

The names are sour on his lips. He crinkles his nose, “I don’t want to associate myself with  _ them,  _ Crowley. This work isn’t easy, not by any stretch, but it-it makes me feel a little more-” Aziraphale breaks off, rolling his lips together.

Crowley sidles closer, stopping only when their shoulders graze and their thighs bump. They’re close, and while only close enough that an onlooker might perceive them as pals, good buds from the football field ( that is, if either of them possessed a physique that even so much as hinted at any degree of athleticism), the gravity between them is too strong to be mistaken for anything else, too important to be misunderstood. “A little more..?”

Barely touching Crowley’s side, Aziraphale shrugs. His eyes are awash and downcast, clouded in a manner that makes Crowley think they might begin to storm if he doesn’t interfere. 

“That book you sold today, to that kid,” He says, idly bringing his thumb to the skin beneath Aziraphale’s chin, “The one who’s father I- er, you know. The one with the wizards?” 

It takes a second, but eventually Aziraphale nods. It’s single and it’s weak, devoid of the usual passion Aziraphale executes the majority of his actions with, but it’s a nod nonetheless. 

“Probably worth something crazy, like, thirty-thousand-pounds- _ crazy _ . Just so you know.”

“Oh, I-  _ oh. Thirty-thousand pounds?  _ I suppose I- I suppose I overdid myself this time. My dear, I hadn’t even thought about-”

“No, no, see,” Crowley waves his hand dismissively. His glasses are suddenly somewhere else, slitted eyes intense in contrast to the nearly opaque shades that had been there before. “I’m not scrutinizing you, give me  _ some  _ credit, Angel. You just wanted to make the tyke happy, yeah? So you poofed ‘im up a ridiculously rare copy of what is, to my knowledge, a  _ massively _ popular  _ phenomenon  _ of a novel, and- and you did it without thinking. Just wanted to see the little one smile and all that, right?”

“Edification through explorative literacy is a  _ gift,  _ Crowley. There’s no better way to expand the horizons of a young mind than through imaginative comprehension and willingfull learning, and-”

“Sure, sure. Edification- beautiful, prettiest apple on the tree, biggest goat in the field,  _ whatever _ . My point is, well, why not just- you see, why not only cater to the young’uns? You’ll still have’ta deal with their rotten parents, but you can expand that- that  _ Kid’s Corner _ -” He tries, and fails, to keep the disdain out of his voice, “ _ I _ nto a whole damned  _ Kid’s Emporium.  _ You can use half the shelves for your collection, and the rest for retail purposes and whatnot. Selective hours, selective appeal- won’t even have to work all that much, ”

“What would I do with the books I stocked for sale purposes?”

“I don’t know.” Crowley rolls his eyes back thoughtfully, “Miracle them away? Burn them? No? Er- Donate them to libraries, then. Or schools. That’s, uh- that’s kosher, innit?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says uncertainly, “I would imagine it is.” A smile begins to bloom across his lips, pink like a primrose, soft like peach fuzz. “But-”

Crowley groans. “No more  _ buts,  _ Angel. No more. You-” He exhales, shakes his head pleadingly, “You lit up with that kid today. It was disgusting, frankly, spreading your  _ goodness  _ around like that, all  _ willy nilly  _ and such _ , _ but. You get off on heedless education, and to a lesser extent, guidin’ children down the, uh,  _ right path _ . Hm. Perhaps I should have phrased that a little better. You don’t- uh, get off on guiding children, you- er- Whatever.” A shrug, quick and painless, because maybe he’s a tad intoxicated from the bottomless wine, and maybe his words aren’t as coherent as he likes, “You definitely don’t enjoy  _ bitchy  _ adults that take your assistance for granted, and, you know, it just doesn’t seem like a bad idea. Running a kid’s shop. Could be fun, yeah?”

Aziraphale eyes him, though the smile is still present, there’s a twinge of doubt curtling the edges of his expression. “You  _ do  _ remember how much of a handful  _ Warlock  _ and his peers had been, yes?”

“They’re children, won’t  _ all  _ be easy.” Crowley leans forward, traces the bridge of his nose along the line of Aziraphale’s jaw, “Besides,” He muses, the pitch of his voice dipping, “You’ve been dealing with me for millennia, Angel. There’s no way-  _ no damn way  _ a couple of children here and there are ever gonna be more difficult than me. Not possible. I was  _ created  _ to be difficult, darling.”

Humming in agreement, Aziraphale finds himself giving into the contact, melting forwards, offering himself like it’s second nature. Without an ounce of hesitation, Crowley tilts his chin forwards, guides his mouth to the smooth plane of Aziraphale’s neck. He smells like pears and brown sugar, up close, and it’s as wonderful as it is intoxicating. 

“Think about it, alright?”

With Crowley pervading his personal space, it takes Aziraphale a moment to find his footing.His heart flutters in his chest, swims in silver pools of nerves and excitement- he can’t help feeling this way, when the demon is near, curling into him, around him like he’s the only thing in the world, the only notion of gravity in a universe stuck afloat. “Alright.”

Being the physically  _ greater  _ entities they are, neither feel the need to breathe, or move or eat or sleep, and so they stay like this, bound together by gentle touches, passionate glances, until the sunlight dulls and the white glow of the streetlights outside claim its place. 

“I knew, you know.” Aziraphale says, some time after the sun has set. 

Crowley, whose head is cradled in the soft hills of Aziraphale’s lap, raises an eyebrow. “Knew what?”

“That you’d been, well,  _ tormenting  _ that boy’s father.”

“Huh. Okay.” He blinks. “Really?”

“Yes, and- well. I suppose I also knew I had given the boy a copy that, to put it plainly, was  _ quite  _ beyond his budget. Which, for your information, happened to be three pounds and a Canadian loonie, of all things.” Aziraphale, who’s long since put down the glass of wine, draws his hand to Crowley’s scalp, traces his fingers along his hairline. “And- and I  _ suppose  _ that I also tweaked the,  _ ahem,  _ state of the boy’s clothing, while you were at it. Gave him something not so- so  _ barren.  _ Comfortable.  _ New. _ Perhaps the rest of his wardrobe received the same treatment, but I digress.

Crowley props himself up onto his elbows, looking up at Aziraphale with poorly masked amusement. “So what I’m hearing,” He purses his lips, “Is that my- what’d you call it?  _ Disrespectful behaviour  _ was for the better, was it not?”

With a grimace that might put Hastur out of business, Aziraphale turns his nose up defiantly, “That’s not what I said  _ at all. _ ”

“Sure, sure.” 

“What I’m saying,” He starts again, sliding his hand down from Crowley’s scalp and holding it to the ledge of his cheekbone, “Is that perhaps you were right. About re-evaluating my clientele.”

“‘Course I’m right.”

“No need to get cocky about it, dear.”

“‘Have you met me?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Ooh, Angel’s got fangs!” 

Aziraphale huffs. “You know, Crowley-” 

“Hm?”

“If you had just wanted attention earlier,” He chides, “You could’ve just asked. I wouldn’t have said no to you. I  _ won’t _ say no to you.”

Crowley gives him a look, one that, rather accusingly, says,  _ Uh-huh. Sure. _

“Anymore. I won’t say no to you anymore. Am I understood?” 

Softening into the weight of Aziraphale’s palm cradling his cheek, Crowley nods despite himself. “Yeah, alright.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale approves, the pad of his thumb glazing over the inked body of Crowley’s serpent, along the tail, up to the yellow-eyed head, “Now, how would you feel about some dinner? Or, and I hope I’m not getting too ahead of myself here, but perhaps some dessert, for dinner? I’ve the darndest cravings for something sweet, you can’t even  _ imagine. _ ”

Eyes gooey and mouth curved into an endeared smile, Crowley feels the cavity of his chest charge with fondness for his angel, who hovers over him with the most ridiculous pout tickling the underside of his lips. His face is open and hopeful, and Crowley is in no position to deny the other what he desires. 

“Whatever you want, Angel.” He lifts himself further, elbows beginning to strain, until he’s breathing in Aziraphale’s air, the fine hair on his cheek grazing that of Aziraphale’s. 

“You’re much too good to me, Crowley.” Aziraphale murmurs, a smart glow behind his eyes. 

“Mm. Don’t remind me.” He closes the gap between them, a movement performed in certainty, in confidence. As wholly as Crowley bends for Aziraphale, Aziraphale bends for Crowley- they meet in the middle, here, balanced and secure despite the entropy of the world around them.

Eventually, they unfold from the cushions of the couch, leave the shop in favour of the bakery down the block. The universe remains stable, a twin of what it was before, almost indistinguishable from what it had been, except tonight, an angel and a demon walk hand in hand, followed only by the yearning glares of the overhead streetlights. They receive no looks, no judgement or question or admiration, and although all is not normal, not according to what once was normal, the earth spins on indefinitely, different, but, ostensibly,  _ better. _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> yo!
> 
> domestic shenanigans between these two is my SHIT. this is a REPOST because I had some editing and revising to do, so if this piece looks familiar, it was posted last week, and then promptly taken down. 
> 
> anyways, hope y'all enjoyed, and be sure to come say hey on Tumblr [@thespideyboy](https://thespideyboy.tumblr.com) !


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